Her Warmth
by Gilly.Flowers
Summary: She whispered in his ear; her bare chest pressed against his back; running her hands down his spine as he re-buckled his trousers.- He wouldn't want her getting ideas (though he was sure she already had ideas.)- And he liked to hurt her.- a tad bit warmer.
1. Her Warmth

**A.N. So I was thinking I might start a series of one-shots, and I imagine they wouldn't go up higher than a T rating. I feel like i'm just been hurtling into this, and it's everyday now that i've posted something, but hopefully after i'm more used to posting bastardy crap on Fanfiction, i'll slow down and take longer-than-a-couple-of-hours breathers. I'd like to do a little thingy of one-shots, of course of ST, so everyone whose been so nice to me, and anyone else whose taken the time to read what i write, tell me if i should...Is this cliche? Well I need this decision made for me, so please, by all means grab the reigns on my dog-and-pony show! Enjoy my randomness.- Love always, Gillies.**

_**D**__**isclaimer: I do not own Sweeney Todd, :3 movie nor musical. All rights go to Tim BUrton and Stephen Sondheim. **_

**(P.S.**** Did anyone notice I ****forgot the disclaimer on my last story? *grimaces* Ooops.)**

* * *

Sweeney blinked. How had he come about to be sitting in Lovett's filthy pie shop? How long had he been sitting there?

The evening outside seemed more chaotic and alive than it felt in the dingy shop. Snow was pourong down from the skys like it had never fallen before; thick, heavy and dense. The gold that sparkled the ice crystals from the motivated lamp posts gave enchantment to the dance of the winter's feircest bite. Why was he down here again? Oh yes-

_''S'awful cold up 'ere, love,'' She whispered in his ear; her bare chest pressed against his back; running her hands down his spine as he re-buckled his trousers. He grunted, ignoring the roads and avenues she craved into his wrinkled shirt. ''Why don't you come down stairs for a spell, hmm? I'm sure it's much warmer down there.''-_

...All in all, she ended up being right.

He knew he should have stopped her before she became too confident. He knew he shouldn't have let her have her way as easily as he did. He wouldn't want her getting ideas (though he was sure she already had ideas.) Well, sure, he supposed it was his fault, but that didn't mean that he should be obliged to sit by and watch her grow far too attached- watch her slip even further into her abysmal dillusions of love.

But then again...Would it hurt to let her fall deeper into what she called love? Just to get what he needed, he could let her believe in her foolish ideas, couldn't he? It wouldn't be half as bad as the many other sins he has commited (debauchery- murder), could it?

Maybe he would, but he imagine's it'd take more work than he's willing to do- and for what? So the whore would wash his shirts faster? Dispose of his bodies faster?_ Satisfy him faster?_Well maybe...No, the work wasn't worth it.

Looking over at her now, with her foolish smile plastered on her face as she pounded dough in between her knuckles, Sweeney wondered if she was already as deep as one could get- her love was sickening. It churned his stomach and made him frown in incredulous wonder.

_'How could she love so effortlessly? Why did she love so wholly? How could her love be so unconditional?'_Not that he cared that much about what goes on inside the venal woman's head, - it just didn't make any logical sense- it was just a wonder.

One that made him hesitate when he wanted to hurt her. And he liked to hurt her. Alot.

As much as he hated it- the one and last will of Benjamin Barker that only sparked when Lovett was so entirely under his control- he had come to accept it. Well, maybe not accept, but to live with it by ignoring the fact, and everything it could or couldn't mean. He shouldn't really over think such psychological notions- the conclusions he gets are never the ones he wants. But their more than likely the ones he expects.

Anyways, he knew that what he and Mrs. Lovett had was purely business- a tad bit more sensual and_ personal_ than most 'businesses', but it was business none-the-less. And if Lovett decided that she wanted to stock up more on gin, or allow him so much more power over her_ (if that were even possible, really,)_then so be it. Who was he to deny her?

She sighed contentedly, glancing up at him from behind a frizzy veil of rust that had fallen out of her poor bun since their- previous interactions. She snatched the rolling pin up- and thwacked the lump of dough- humming- in time- to her- admissioned- hits.

Sweeney didn't like to think that he was lonely. But mind and body were usually two desperate workers. And his body had considered himself sbout roughly 15 years lonely.

And they were both adults- he knew what he was getting into- who he was getting into- and neither couldn't deny that they didn't enjoy their off-and-on, usually spontantous couplings.

He enjoyed_ it_; she enjoyed _him_. He _needed_ it; he_ took_ it; she needed _him_; she_ gave_it. Share and share alike. A lucky balance amongst see-saws. -

_''Are you seriously tryn'na tell me that you're still perfectly sexually satisfied even after 15 years? An' by what- the _mere thought_ of Lucy?!" -_

He couldn't say he regretted anything. He was certain he didn't. He just hoped that was postively sure that he knew what he was getting himself into- who he was getting into.

She brushed the flour off her bodice and corset stomach, giving the dough one more- thwack- before setting her rolling pin down and kneadling it into the shape of a pie crust. She shot him a wink when she caught him looking.

The dough-

_"Pie to be,'' she clasped her hands together in front of her chest, as if she were holding flowers, her eyes fluttering in mock before she was taken into a spiralling dance-_

was set aside for a moment. Glances were exchanged; slow, taunting steps were taken; finally hands ripped at clothing and bodies pressed together. To say the least, the counterspace was used for something a tad bit more exciting- _a tad bit warmer._


	2. Maybe

Sweeney glanced up disinterestedly from his slouched posture in his barber's chair, eyeing Mrs. Lovett as she went about his room, fussing over things she had fussed over not three minutes ago; humming and chattering, guessing and pacing and calculating, envisioning and asking.

From his point of view, her back was to him and her fingers drumming on her hips, and Sweeney found himself absentmindedly admiring the fiery halo of blood ringlets that corkscrewed this way and that, clustered together in a meager bun. The day was extraordinarily bright and sunny and downright wonderful, and the light shone in through the small window beside the door, igniting her tangles to a blazed orange. If only she'd ever stop talking, he'd might actually think about saying to her how her hair looked nice.

Of course she didn't; so Sweeney stayed as silent, lips pulled tense in a frown but eyes soft as he watched maroon curls bob and swing and tumble.

Mrs. Lovett stopped abruptly, her hands held up in the direction of the window, her thumbs and pointer fingers poised as a frame. She quirked her lips, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder.

''How about we add more windows and such in 'ere, love? Open it up and le' some sunshine in, yeah?'' She mused, her distracted tone - why, he doesn't know - irritates him more than what she's asking of him. ''Could use some sunlight - it's so bloomin' dark in 'ere. But then again s'not like it's usually this lovely o' weather, so maybe I've gotten_ too much_ sun an' now I've gone a lit'le loopy,''

A soft grunt came from him, and he pulled his unintentionally rapacious gaze away from her enrapturing beauty - _bitch._

''Why don't we get some new wallpaper? A cheery blue, per'aps? That'd be good for business, Mr. T, too - costumer's don't like 'ow gloomy it is in 'ere, don't want 'em leavin' just 'cuz you're wallpaper is old and crumplin', now do yah?''

''Lucy picked the wallpaper.'' He mutters, staring at some spot on the floor. Mrs. Lovett stopped, pursing her lips - _all the better reason to get rid of it, then._

Sweeney stood up from his chair, and trotted to the window, his razor opening and closing by his side. Mrs. Lovett set her dusting cloth down on the chest, before walking over to stand in front of him.

''Might be the time to get rid of it, eh love?" Mrs. Lovett whispered, tilting her head up at him. Sweeney scowled, glaring down at her and solely on her. His warmth rallied her pulse, his smell inebriated her, his eyes pulled her in as easily as the sea - oh God, did she ever love him.

And then, she saw his eyes flicker down to her lips, saw him gulp. Her heart pounded in her chest from their close proximity, and she longed to sink into his chest and remain with him always. She longed for him to let her love him. Unsurely, she smiled up at him from behind her eyelashes; a twisting up-turn of her cherry lips that he wouldn't let himself grow too fondly of - though something told him he already was.

_Maybe now...Maybe._

Before she lost her confidence - or perhaps it was merely panic - Mrs. Lovett grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him closer by his collar - her eyes were wide, a haplessly languid doe caught in the burning lights of the man's attention - and she kissed him.

Stunned, he fell against her, finding himself motionless as her mouth slammed into his. He could practically feel the desperation radiating off her warming skin from her tight consternation. She kissed him, her eyes squeezed shut as if she expected to be punched, kicked, and pushed off. But he didn't, he didn't do anything.

Before she became too embarrassed to ever stop pressing her mouth to his, before she just couldn't stop and face his rejection, Mrs. Lovett pulled herself harshly away from his unresponsive lips. She let her hands drop heavily on his shoulders, looking down at his shoes with pricking tears starting to well up.

She took a step back.

''M'so sorry - Mr. Todd.'' A too-cheery laugh, a pat on his chest. ''Don't know what came over me.''

She didn't dare to look up at him; though she hated herself to oblivion for being so hopelessly hopeful, so ignorantly believing in this completely irrational belief, that he might say something to make her stay - that he'd show her he cared, even just a little, and even if it was for what she could give him, and not her herself.

She left herself linger, her legs hesitating as they trembled; she was trying to move to the door quicker without giving another pathetic apology, or, at least, with whatever scrap of dignity - she dared to say - she had left.

Finally, with a quivering breath, she felt her wobbly legs start to move, she brushed past him - who would she be if she could've resisted touching him one last time? - and she went to reach for the door.

Hand latched to the doorknob, she was spun around and slammed against the wood. Her premature squeak of surprise was cut off abruptly by Sweeney's lips devouring her - and, by the way, _she_ wasted no time in kissing him back, insufferable man. Their teeth clashed, sharp intakes through their noses the only sound audible above the rush of her head, Mrs. Lovett whimpered into him as a cool hand ran up her arm. He grabbed the base of her head, his fingers pressing and threading, and she felt his tongue skimming possessively along her lower lip.

Too happily she obliged, opening her mouth to his probbing tongue and she let him dominate every inch of her. Sweeney's arm snaked around her back, crushing her against him as if he were trying to fuse their heated flesh together, forever become one; he pulled her lower half off the door whilst pinning her shoulders to the window, smirking when her leg slide up his.

Unfortunately, the need for breath in their aching lungs grew too obvious, and when their mouths unlatched, her head fell back on the door. Panting, she smirked up at him; letting her eyes slip shut as his hand caressed her skin and moved to toy with a fallen curl behind her ear.

''Mrs. Lovett - '' She looked up at him, her chest heaving, face flushed, her smirk smoothing out into a brilliant, loving smile.

''Sweeney,'' she whispered,

''...I...'' he whispered. ''_Maybe_...''

She liked to think he almost smiled back.


	3. My God

_**A.N. I seem to have forgotten to say last time, that these are a bunch of nonrelating One-shots c:These are not a story, they have no connection to anything besides the fact that they are all Sweenett-revolving (so far, anyways). This quenches my thirst of descriptive, nonsense, nonpurposeful writing - and there good too, huh? XD Well...If they aren't review why; if they are, review why too. Reviews are always appreciated, no matter what they incline to give - criticism, compliments, advice, the whole bloody lot. Uh...i feel like theres more to say...but...I can't think of anything else...So...Enjoy, I guess :3 -Gillies **_

* * *

Though the window was as clear as it had ever been, washed, dried, wiped down and no longer dusty or smudged, the world beyond was still hidden. Though the first thing she saw was the shimmering light in his narrowed, haunted eyes, he stood there with nothing acknowledged but the darkness. No stars, no moon, no sky. It was all empty, without purpose and cold and drowning in its own bleakness – but then again it wasn't like he noticed any of it.

Her. He noticed – no, he saw – her, but then who could go through their daily days, and not catch a glimpse of the fiery haired baker, with her flaunting attitude and her nonchalance of ease? No one, it was impossible – he should know.

Red and black, grey, white and yellow,– her red curl-upon-curl-upon-knot locks, set as slatternly as those fat, well-greased busy-bodies would expect from her – her lacy black gloves that were stuck on flesh, going along with all her constant moving, touching, brushing, waving, pounding, kneading, squashing, flicking - her white skin, a sight that rivaled the ghostly lady who danced and twirled without a care in the world, on the surface of a river at night – the grey dough that stuck to her knuckles, to her rolling pin, to her countertop, was and will forever be what she hides behind; a lumpy, sticky shield that served quite well at times - her yellow pies, pulled hot out of the oven, golden and warm and wafting with ambrosial mouth-watering succulence, their secret being carried around on a metaphorical silver platter, held high with her pride, to all whom knew no better what was really, truly, being put into their mouths in the form of delicious yellow (which was everyone) – she was everything, every color. Every sense of direction and every feeling. But at the moment, she was there beside him.

She had been there for a while now, actually, sitting with her head back, eyes closed, her legs crossed lazily and in her hanging hand there was a bottle of gin. It was near empty, having been passed between them for the few hours that she had been with him, accompanying him when everywhere else was quiet and dim. Idly chit-chat was her thing, and it would have gone as terribly surprising if she remained as silent as he at any given time; everything escaped her lips when she drank, he supposed it 'loosened' her.

He guessed it was working on him too, turning his tongue into a twitching, eager muscle, rather than the barrier was once. He barely registered that he was answering nearly every question she asked of him, barely resisted.

"What're yer thoughts on God?" The hint of sarcasm embedded in her drawling, sleepy voice almost managed to tug his lips into a smile, like the puppet-master he had thought he rid himself of years ago, but he was afraid the small curl of his dead mouth would resound far too loudly throughout the room.

He didn't dare reply this time, staring but never seeing out of the cold glass. The night (he knew it to be such only by her informing him the moment she arrived, as she slowly turned his '_We're_ _Open_' sign on its face,) was chilled from the evident promise of rain, the streets vacant and the dark blanket far above their heads still just as vacant. Not even the moon had the nerve to gleam before the demon at his post.

Just as suddenly as her question, she slid into his hazy, quite narrow line of vision, her face as milky as a church candle, (he saw this as an ironic thought) her forehead crinkled like a summer desert; her dress was a fine, deep red, much darker than her hair for sure; her eyes sunken and tired, yet filled with a cautious liveliness that he liked.

A soft '_'ere, love,_' and the bottle was pressed into his hands. His throat was parched, but he only allowed himself a small drink. He grimaced lightly, handing back the bottle, already forgetting about the momentary warm burn that trailed down his esophagus.

"What?" He croaked, finding his eyes gliding without resistance to her pale presence. She wasn't looking at him, though, and he only knew he expected it by the surprise that riddled his clumsy mind.

Her arms crossed and her face was turned up, the slope of her alabaster neck so close he had to fight back the urge to graze her collarbone; she had light dancing in her eyes, spinning and twinkling.

Where had it come from? Frowning perplexedly, he looked too at the sky, but saw only one, far away star – not enough to create this pool of watery snow that turned and crawled over her dilated irises.

Her lips parted in a quiet sigh, her mouth stretching out into a smile that wasn't quite a smile, and her body turned towards him even as her head stayed staring up through what was to him, a solid and colorless wall, with an easy grace that nearly irritated him.

"Yer views on th' Lord o' 'bove, Mr.T – what are they?" she asked again, glancing at him as she went back to her laid-back posture on his chair. A tiny sneer broke through his ice.

"_Really_, pet?" She shrugged, twisting her neck to look at him, to show her seriousness. He rolled his eyes, shifting in his place. "Of all the people," His tone was scratchy, guarded, but she somehow knew he was going to fall anyways. "You've asked _Sweeney Todd_ of 'is _religious beliefs?_"

"Yep," She confirmed him tersely, fighting back her smug grin when he shoots her a look.

He started to pace then, his step hesitating the moment his answer began to collect, pressing against his teeth with unshared excitement.

"Oh come on now love, what 'arm will it do? Tell me – please."

"'He' no longer exists -" He snapped suddenly, growling at his weakness when it came to her and her persistence. "'He' vanished – died – the second Benjamin Barker was dragged away from his…his wife and child."

The pain was clear even behind his gruff snips, as he recalled involuntarily the start of his and his beautiful family's downfall. But besides the pity she felt - will always feel - even she couldn't help but grow a little weary as he spoke about himself, again, in third-person.

"God is a _coward_, pet – fake and consumed with greed. Men were made in His image." His voice dropped as he concluded with demonic passion, his eyes narrowing as he scowled, the hatred for what was once considered the Enternal Savior to a naïve man, quickening his pulse and thrumming in his brain. He glanced up at the ceiling for a second. Then he whirled around to face her, dark and, truth be told, scary.

Instinctively her body tensed, her hands gripped the armrests and her shoulders rose as her leered forward, towering over her with a smirk that told he knew she was frightened. He leaned forward, his rough hands clasping the chair just beside hers, his face mere centimeters away from her own, drawn back head.

"I would have never survived where survival mattered most, had I not killed Benjamin – had I not killed the prospect of there ever truthfully being a _God_ that gave those who needed it the luck. _I saved myself._" His voice began to roar in her face, making her shake, flinching from his sharp words. He paused then, collecting himself, drawing his drunken mind back together.

"…God is full of shit." He muttered, glaring down at her when she visibly relaxed after a moment of hesitation.

"See?" She breathed, her still-trembling hands gingerly sliding up his arms to curl around his neck. "This's far more interestin' than what some – _common priest_ woulda fed me."

Her heart swelled when he chuckled softly, even as reality checked in and she realized it was because of how much they had had to drink together.

Her arms dropped, just barely clinging to his shoulders. He was staring down at her, watching her with a type of scrutiny she'd never seen from him before; she wondered if she liked it.

"I…I best ge' ta bed, then, love. Tis late as – early, it's early actually. I 'ave a shop to run, pies to bake, stuff like that. You 'ave a business to attend to, too, so…" She trailed off, growing a little anxious when he didn't move. Biggering anticipation made her throat dry, and she was just about to give into what she knew was below the surface of her worriedly beseeching gaze –

He drew back, straightening up and averting his eyes. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding poured from her lips, and slowly she stood up too.

He stood still, looking at the floor, his eyebrows knitted together. She wiped her hands off on her skirts, stepping up to him to gently press a kiss onto his cold cheek.

"Good night Mr. T," She whispered turning to leave. "'member that there's always a God – but jus' not th' type o' God you's been thinking of… 'e's beautiful, when you see him." The door closed behind her, and he was frozen until the sound of her footsteps died away. He frowned further, walking heavily to the window and propping his arm up against the pane.

He nearly toppled backwards from the sight that exploded in a glittering show of still-shot fireworks just beyond the glass. Millions upon millions of stars shone with a brilliance that left him awed, – _him, the murderous Demon Barber!_ – The moon appeared too before him, large and full and bright. The spray of light ignited his bare room, and he almost wished she was still here, so she too could bathe in this sudden beauty –

Realization hit him – Sweeney Todd saw Lovett's Goddess. And she was beautiful.

* * *

_**P.s. I know 'biggering' isn't a real word, but i liek the way it sounds :DD -Gillies**_


	4. Her Tricks

**Good morning (not really, its almost midnight here in good ol' Can-an-dah) starshines! The earth says 'Holloa!'**

**How's everyone? C: That's great buds, thanks for tellin' me all about your lovely escapades and what not. Sorry, I'm being a douchebag, aren't I? Whoops, well yeah. I'm going to say 'sorry loves' in advance... I honestly don't know what happened here, but you know... Okay, so this hot little number stars our dearest couple, but Mrs. Lovett hasn't learned her 'place' yet, I guess... I'm a woman, so screw you if that sounded sexist. Besides, it's the 1800's, that shit was how it rolled back then, 'member?**

**Uh... Have fun, and tell me all about it in the review box thingy down there, yeah? Yeah! And again, I'm... I apologize for veering off the God-given Sweenett course... Uh -Gillies**

* * *

Three muffled knocks echoed into the bakehouse, dull but distinct; her knuckles hurt when she replied with three knocks on metal, chin tilted up, eyes wide and body stiff from impatient excitement. Silence surrounded her, the stifling heat amplifying tenfold as she held her breath, waiting.

The trapdoor gaped suddenly open with a creak and a crash, coughing out a tightly tied bundle of bricks down to the floor a foot or so away from her heeled boots.

She cackled victoriously and bounced a little, clapping her gloved hands quite childishly before she leant forward to look up the chimney at the shadowed man, looming over the top of the hole. She couldn't see the dazed surprise on the barber's face for it was nothing to her but a black pit, nor could she see the momentarily frozen muscles stretch into a smug grin.

The tiny baker hurriedly threw him a thumbs-up before the iron barriers squealed back to a firm close.

"We did it! We're _marvelous!_" She chimed to the walls, perhaps preparing herself from the speech of success and praise that was soon to be flowing from her lips. Her legs, shaky from glee, kicked the heavy, edgy burlap sack to the side and she rushed in a flourish of skirts and laces and clipping boots to the stairs, eager to meet the barber half way and vigorously celebrate their immense triumph.

* * *

The squealed clangor of the trapdoor shot her spine straight and dropped her palms from her cheeks, her wide eyes following after the fluttery descent of Sweeney's first inconsequential murder; all reminiscing of earlier bakehouse-concerning milestones set to a smudgy halt by the shrill wailing. Her fingers splayed out on the warm work table, Mrs. Lovett leaned forward, peering from across the room at the plump pile of what appeared to be Fisher - the dead give-away was the smell - and she cocked an eyebrow at the mess of brains that'd popped out of the poor bugger's fleshy skull.

Picking her way towards the fresh corpse, Mrs. Lovett pushed stringy hair out of her eyes, staring down with a twitching disgust, her hanging arms feeling indecisive and out of place. She glanced up into the darkness, before she tucked her hands under the bloke's arms and lifted.

Damn it, he was a hell of a lot heavier than he looked.

Mrs. Lovett huffed and puffed the entire way, pulling the body from where he'd sunk to the stone floor to where she'd proceed to cut him open and other things of the kind. She batted away frustrated thoughts of where her barber was at the moment of time-lapping labor, knowing it'd do nothing but make her want to scream. Her back cried, her calves burned, her veins pumped rat poisoning, her limbs felt heavy and ripped open, like they had just finished a charming journey through the grinder, and she was quickly accumulating an uncomfortably thick outer skin of sweat.

Finally she dropped the Fisherman from her hands, standing straight and groaning softly, pressing and kneading into her lower back in search of some relief. Pivoting on her heel, Mrs. Lovett's whiny complexion washed away and dripped down her bosom with the collecting beads of perspiration. If she'd stepped forwards once more, she would have hit the table's edge.

No problem now.

Filled with renewed strength, she hoisted the fisherman up by his upper arms, curling and clutching her fingers into his damp shirt. A small, contempt sneer broadcasted her lessened mood when his rolling head flopped between her knees with his eyes bulged and his mouth hanging open stupidly, smearing her skirts with what remained of his splattered brains.

_What, d'you not _like_ wot y'sees down there? _Mrs. Lovett snorted, her lips pulled taut in an evil grin as she interrogated the shocked fisherman._ Aw well, maybe yer one of 'em fruity types, eh mistah? _

After a series of strained grunts and scuffling feet and a few more comments on the man between her leg's sexuality - all the while with her desperately trying to remain balanced throughout the entire ordeal - Mrs. Lovett was _more_ than happy to pull her hands out from under his shoulders, giving a satisfied '_yeah_', and a friendly pat on his sticky chest when she finally had his ass up on the chopping block. The compliant fisherman stared up at the ceiling, his body already beginning to slump like warm dough into to the table, oblivious to her satisfaction. The reek of rotting sea was forever imprinted on his skin, like dirt too far beneath the nail to remove.

He was looking a little sick, pale and startled, but honestly what was she expecting Sweeney's first to look once the deed was done? A faint chuckled peeped out of her throat then, and she practically skipped around to his feet, to where the butcher knife had fallen during her miraculous spurt of man-power.

Mrs. Lovett pouted, wielding the blade in the air and rubbing away perspiration from her soaking brow.

"Oh, don' look at me like that, bud. S'yer fault, anyhow; _I_ didn't sit y'down in that chair and slit yer throat, now did I?" She muttered begrudgingly, biting her lip and skimming her pitying eyes over the gash – the only prominent feature to the fisherman's otherwise dull, norm-looking visage. She sighed with an effort, shrugging lightly at the small shred of guilt that pinched her insides, and deftly sliced open the man's chest clothing.

The fisherman's stomach was grey and plushy, his gut spilled out over the tight circle of his belt and trousers, and he had little pillows thrusting out of his underarms. The gap in his head, where brains had been forced out from gravity and pressure and stuff, had little red veins hanging out flaccid, like tiny drainage pipes. A small but noticeably thick spread of curly hair sat on top of the man's well-muscled, if not a little flabby, freckled bosom. Mrs. Lovett grimaced – she had never really cared for chest hair.

A sudden inquiry of what the underside of the fisherman's skin would smell like caused her pained wince to heighten, and she shook her head as if trying to unhinge her daft head. Bad Mrs. Lovett, bad! Such things should never be thought by a lady. Well then again… Oh, never mind.

She set the knife's tip-top between his slabs of breast, her other leisurely hand gripping for brace on his upper arm, and she rocked forward on her toes when the large knife began to sink into tough skin. Her lips twisted in exertion, and she squealed in fright when a tiny spray from red blossomed out of the fresh incision.

"Oh dear Lord, y'still 'ave blood left?!"

A blank, surprised look stared past her narrowed, accusing eyes, passive to her discomfort, blind to the rushed swipe of a palm over an irritated, unnerved face.

Quickly she set back to work, her small hand clinging and the blade sinking and dragging with ferocity, as if she were trying to catch up from the time lost. Her nose crinkled, rendering the entirety of her face into a damaged and scarred battlefield of shadowed lines, when a mouth-thickening smell oozed out with the thin cut that spanned down his torso. Mrs. Lovett coiled back, shoving her flared nostrils into the sleeve of her dress, and pushed the knife in a bit so it sat sticking out of his lower tummy. The closet-y scent of her work dress was hardly an improvement from the blood-soaked meat stench that had slipped out of his rib cage like cuss words from a drunkard, and eventually she resurfaced to face it when dust and mold grew too sickening to bear.

"Tha's quite a stink, ain't it bud?" She murmured, wiping her hands off on her skirt and grabbing hold of the knife's handle. It wasn't a particularly revolting smell, but it was an eminent reminder of…What has been done. Not that she minded all that much, obviously, but the poor bloke hadn't a chance. It should be natural to feel compassion, at least for a little while, right? She should feel queasy and a little unsettled, being what the matter at hand was, considering the situation, _right_?

Right, yes, of course. She definitely wouldn't be exactly ecstatic to be in his place, that's for sure.

Mrs. Lovett nearly laughed at herself – honestly, she dared to say she felt _compassion _for the dead-man, while standing over him and gutting him like a salmon? She dared to say that she was slightly quizzical about it all as she drew a knife through his squishy skin? And she _dared_ to feel _bad_ for him, to _relate_ to him, to _answer _and _explain_ for him, while she took his hard-earned meat and handed it out to his brothers, sisters, aunts, and lovers? Who the hell did she think she was? Who did Sweeney think he was, thrusting this duty and this slavering job and this complicated twinge of remorse into her hands?!

…Who was she to pin it all on the deeply troubled barber when it hadn't even occurred to her to ever say 'no way mistah'? She knew she'd been bound by hands and feet the moment the Demon Barber stepped through her unkept doorway. She knew she'd do anything for him and his happiness as soon as she set eyes on him. And it had been her idea in the first place...

Blood warmed her hands, dribbling and squeezing in between her fingers, but it passed unnoticed, her mind thousands of miles away and fully set on dissecting literally everything at that very moment. The sudden fierce resistance put flames into her whirling thoughts, and sent the cleverly structured explanation to life as she knew it, crumbling into a charred heap too far out of reach to waste time with; and it was forgotten about entirely, its existence ceasing, when her wide eyes dropped to investigate. Oh, her knife had hit leather.

Pulling the metal cutter out of the gloppy home it had imbedded itself deep in, Mrs. Lovett flicked her wrist in an airy attempt to rid the blade's face of the bubbly mask of red, then plopped the butcher knife down adjacent to the Fisher's leg. She tilted her head in appreciation to the fancy item of dress the Fisherman used to keep up his pants, tapping the belt mindlessly before returning to her task. Mrs. Lovett tugged off her gloves and set them down on the floor, unwilling to ruin them further for the sake of a certain, unmentionable someone, before she shoved her hands into the straight and neat (sort of, if you minus the surrounding expanse of drying blood) laceration, plummeting fingers than knuckled then wrists into his wet interior.

After a short while of feeling around, her fingers caught around something and her heart leapt in surprise, an expeditious shriek tearing out from deep in her throat. She tugged, trying her best to keep the churning bile in her belly to stay there, ignoring the _slick_ing and _slopp_ing that was going on in front of her as she tore something out of the lagoon in his lower chest cavity.

Stepping back, Mrs. Lovett threw down the little watery sack, a curt yap of disgust accompanying the _splat!_ Panting lightly, as if she'd just ran laps around the bakehouse, she examined the slimy, defiled organ with contempt, holding her bloodied hands out in a futile effort to keep her crusty-red-stained dress free of additional scum. "Eck," She croaked, shaking her hand and resisting the impulse to rub at her forehead. It was his _stomach_ she deduced, toeing it reluctantly with the front of her boot. Well, she couldn't use it now.

The door to the bakehouse screamed out the barber's presence, making the little woman jump and hurriedly throw her head around. Her chin nearly collided into her lifted shoulder. She let out a breath, cracking a smile to see Sweeney trudging over to her workspace, his shirt empty of red evidence. For some ungodly reason he'd brought along his razor – she swore, that man and his bloody razors went _everywhere_ together. Talk about BBF's.

"Oh, 'ello love." Mrs. Lovett said quietly, turning her head back at the blob of organ at her feet. She felt so much more apathetic to it all now that he was here, his hands on his hips and his critical eye roaming about behind her.

A small half-grin grew immediately across his face, and he leaned to the side, trying to get a better view of the popped-out hole in the fisherman's head. He glanced over his shoulder, at the floor beneath the trapdoor, then back at his victim, continuing to admire the condign maltreatment he'd inflicted on the unfortunate costumer. Mrs. Lovett huffed – what a man, he is.

Sweeney's gaze turned cold and he looked over at the little baker, but the smile was still there.

"What are you doing, pet?" He asked as casually as she had ever heard.

Mrs. Lovett crossed her arms, abandoning the pile of lumpy red stuff on the floor to step back up to her post beside the plump body. "I'm... _Experimentin'_." She explained, planting a hand on the table and fiddling with the knife handle with her other, trying not to smile. "Can't you see?" Mrs. Lovett looked up at him and a smirk broke out at the sight of his easing irritation. Her wondrous practicality must have still been fresh in his mind; he was in such a fabulous mood!

Sweeney scuffed up opposite to her, his grin giving way for an indifferent frown, and he gripped the table's edge. "Experimenting?" She looked like a dilettante to baking, poking about and grimacing unsurely.

Mrs. Lovett lifted her chin, narrowing her eyes a smidge. "Yes, experimentin'. Wot would you expect? M'not used to - I wasn't_ educated_ to _skin_ 'umans, love." The little baker winked at her barber, plucking up the knife and grabbing a firm hold on the fisherman's leg. Sweeney watched.

Glancing quickly up at him, she drummed her bloody fingers up the dead- man's thigh, pinching and squeezing with an adorably concentrated look on her face. She frowned thoughtfully, figuring if anywhere the fisherman's legs would be the best place to shear _something_ worthwhile from; she tilted her head and pursed her lips.

"So... 'ow much meat d'you think's in 'ere?"

It took a moment for Sweeney to remember to listen, and he shifted on his feet, folding his hands behind his back. He growled back, "Enough."

Mrs. Lovett smiled abruptly at him from across the table, her eyes flashing a burst of near-contagious exhilaration. "Wanna see a trick me ol' Albert taught me?"

Sweeney's lips cracked out of its solemn mask once again, but he was eagerly ready to decline her offer of a little show-an'-tell despite his uncharacteristic amusement. Before he could even start to refuse she lifted the butcher knife high over her disarrayed head of hair and swung it down fast, a small pout from the force pressing her whitening lips together. The room was quickly fraught with a sharp clang - Mrs. Lovett's blade had sunk through flesh and bone and flesh, clinking against the table, rendering both of them into a momentary state of astonished shock.

Sweeney leant inconspicuously forwards, looking down his nose at the split the tiny woman before him had just caused between hip and thigh. His gaped open mouth clamped shut, and he looked up to find Mrs. Lovett biting her lip to keep in her laughter, her pinkening face expressing the profuse amount of pride she felt; she was practically bursting with satisfaction.

"…Well…" Sweeney shrugged, smirking as he watched Lovett brandish her knife, blowing on it like one would to a smoky barrel on a gun.

"_Well_? That's all you 'ave to say? I'm bloody amazing, ain't I Mr. T? Come on now, admit it," She planted her hands on the table and thrust herself practically on top of the fisherman, displaying her cleavage cleverly as she inclined towards Sweeney, a boastful lop-sided grin stuck on her face. He tried not to smile.

" An' for me next trick," Her voice sounded childish, cocky and egotistic. She straightened her back up, her eyes downcast at the broken body between the pair, contemplating exaggeratingly. "I'm goin' ta convince th' 'ole of London it's pork!" Mrs. Lovett declared, pompously lifting her hands, her elbows remaining bent and against her corseted sides.

Sweeney stepped back, smirking maliciously, shamelessly drinking in the arrogant picture her and her curvaceous body made.

She laughed then, throwing her head back and getting drunk in his unusually ample attention. "Now love, could yer wittle Lucy do somethin' like -" Warning bells went off as soon as the hardly-analyzed thought was falling flamboyantly out of her mouth.

A lash of anger snapped through his heart, his mouth becoming a waterless desert, his eyes widening before they burned with iniquitous hatred, his lips bearing a vicious hiss, "_Mrs. Lovett_."

She didn't listen to the warning bells, though.

"What? You know abou' as well as I do that Lucy couldn't be 'alf as good as me – don't you Mr. T? I came up wit' this brilliant idea. Bloody brilliant, I am – Lucy could _never_ – such a silly nit she w-"

Hands clamped around her pale throat and she was smashed into the wall behind her; the back of her head banging and she choked, trying to breath around the crushing force that felt like it was trying to decapitate her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her fingers desperately clawing at the hands on her neck. She felt dizzy – oh no. No, no, no, _no_!

"Mmm…Is..t.." She crooned, gagging out as much as she could in her urgent plea for relent, for forgiveness.

Suddenly the murdering pressure was gone; Mrs. Lovett sucked in breath, her hands encircling around the sore flesh of her neck, trying to speak over the rush of panicked tears. Before she could fall to the floor and beg, something cold and sharp was digging into her bruised skin. Her throat felt raw, shriveled and dry, and it hurt when she gulped.

"What was that, _my dear_?" The voice of a monster breathed into her ear, growling and shaking with bitter rage. Mrs. Lovett blubbered her way over consonants and vowels, squalling over incoherent bargains for her life. Sweeney grew tired of them, shoving her shoulders back and beginning to roar in her face. "How about I gorge your throat out and watch you bled all over your floor, you little bitch? _How does that sound to you, pet?_"

((I swear to _God_ this was Sweenett at first o-o))

Mrs. Lovett shook her head, but seeing as that only caused the razor to sink deeper into her flesh, her actions stalled immediately, and she attempted to put some distance between her and the biting kiss of the blade.

"_Sweeney_," She keened suddenly, taking him off-guard with her cry. The barber's razor dropped from her throat and he backed away a step, looking a little frightened… But his frozen gape didn't last any longer and quickly he remembered why he was so close to ending Mrs. Lovett insufferable life; impenitent seething masked his face in a stony coldness acrid enough to mutilate her heart on the spot.

His cruel, pitiless eyes seared her face, making her turn her cheek and stare flinchingly at the floor in sort of bashful submission. Before she could mutter an apology Sweeney's hand was forcing her to look at him, and his nose was mere, dire centimeters from hers. Their breath mingled, and she stayed still, drowning in the pain she found in the black pools staring back at her.

"…Don't _ever_ speak of her like that again… You're nothing compared to her." He spat; the heat he threw at her twisted her insides and she couldn't stand the tortured image he was in front of her, so she bowed her head and closed her eyes, willing the pricking tears not to overpower her eyelids. It didn't help much, since she could see him clear as day in her mind, his misty gaze yelling out. Her lips twisted in restrained agony.

He was gone by the time she could muster an "I know, love," back.


	5. Old Age

**Holloa! I'm back quick, sorry XD I have this bit here, it's alil short but eh. Its AU, and... Idk, I like the idea of grandma Nellie. -Gillies**

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Eleanor's wrinkled hands wielded sliver knitting needles in her lap, her vastly grayed hair held off her face by a loose up-do she'd managed earlier that day, and her focused eyes remained downcast on the pile of ruby-red thread; she was determined as ever she was to finish Mr. Todd's damned muffler before she finally croaked.

The now ancient barber and baker sat, shoulder to shoulder on the emerald sofa, both more relaxed than ever in each other's company without always acknowledging the other. A contented fire had the darkened room subtly awash with light, and whatever softly spoken words that fell from whoever prated fed the serenity the aged couple felt at the moment. The modestly small, quiet house they had shared for nearly half her lifetime, set on a knoll and closed off from the world – or so it pleasantly felt - by a thicket of stunning cherry trees, was not anywhere near to the ocean as she had once foolishly dreamt; but after the weeks she spent hurling into a bucket, surrounded by the great wet thing – well, let's just say she'd gotten her fair share of the 'idyllic scenery'.

The thought of her blowing chunks on the terrible voyage to America consequentially resulted in thoughts of Anthony and Johanna. Never mind how offensive the transition may be. Drawing in a breath to gather her company's attention, Eleanor set down her tools and turned to catch Sweeney's gaze before he looked away again.

"How d'you think the kids are?" Eleanor asked, her joking tone going hand-in-hand with the brilliance in her eyes.

He looked surprised initially by the sudden change in subject, but it was so slight and had she blinked it would have gone unseen. Old age had hardly changed either of them, and Sweeney's smile was miniscule and lopsided – but at least it was there.

"Fine, my pet," He said smoothly, his velvety voice quiescent and wonderful still to her ears. "I'm sure their just fine."

The conversation held an air of conclusion, even though now Eleanor was bursting to continue. But she didn't dare, instead starting up the labour of knitting once again; this time around, she was distracted and silent.

Eleanor wondered what had come of the two lovebirds. Oh, of course every few years or so they received a letter from wherever on earth they were at the moment – Johanna, the poor dear, couldn't stand staying in the same place for more than a few days before she began to feel trapped and desperate; Eleanor hoped the world was big enough to quench her thirst for new, foreign horizons – there was just so much that couldn't be said, even in a library of 'hello's and 'we _are_ just fine, Mrs. Lovett!'s.

She knew for a fact that there was never to be or ever was any grandchildren, which had displeased Sweeney something terrible when Anthony wrote, explaining Johanna's detest for babies – it was understandable, had he not brooded and thought clearly about it: Johanna felt that the running nosed monsters would chain her to one place, the exact thing she feared so much – but in the end Eleanor had been able to convince the pouty fossil out of his sulk, and stopped any grudges that may or may not have been brewing for a certain, dewy-eyed sailor.

She knew also that they were married, nonetheless the lack of children; they wrote about their fall wedding somewhere in the lower colonies of Canada; Sweeney had been upset then too, and Eleanor had tried to get his mind off of missing his only child's wedding by offering her own hand in holy matrimony… Sadly her proposal was for naught.

But most importantly she knew that in each and every letter the two had sounded genuinely blissful. And Sweeney was proud of them for being happy.

Eleanor looked down at her soon-to-be scarf, her smile sinking as she ran her fingertips across its yarny face. Her lips twisted suddenly and her old eyes swelled with tears. Why now? Why hadn't she noticed that her project for over 3 months now was red _before_ it was too late to scrap it in a fit of frustrated remorse?

…Why did she think she didn't deserve to mourn properly, over her dear little boy?

Angrily, she swept a hand over her eyes, sniffing and glancing instinctively over to Sweeney. They locked gazes before she dropped hers. After a beat Sweeney shuffled closer and wrapped an arm around her weak shoulders. He pressed a hesitant kiss on her temple, whispering sweet nothings to calm her, as it was his turn to not let her fall.

He drew away back to his corner of the settee as soon as she sent him a grateful smile and patted his leg in reassurance.

She heard the words mulling about in his tongue before he gained the courage – or the incentive – to open his mouth and say them, but she didn't want to hear him gently reminding her that there was no point in dwelling on the past, on what she knew couldn't be erased or reversed.

"It's alright, love." She murmured, once again picking up her pace of clinking silver, desperate for something to hide herself behind – old habits die hard, she supposed sardonically. Despite her grief, she was positive she would have done nothing different if given the chance; they were in peace together now; they'd grown old together just as she always wanted. And it was for the best that Toby hadn't been forced to continue living in this rotten world. She regretted absolutely nothing.

But she understood believing in what she did would never lessen the ache she felt when she walked into her parlor to find an empty rug, or when she drank her occasional glass of gin, or when she knitted a red muffler, or when she simply missed him.

Now, when she thinks back to those moments that were once the best of her life, that her and the retired barber shared, Sweeney's glowing eyes were always outshined by Toby's always brighter smile; the sense of glee she'd caused when Sweeney had been in front of her, whispering loving words she could never hope to hear, to the razors in his palm outweighed by the joy she made in the little games she once played with what seemed to be the only innocent left in her universe.

Eleanor shook her head, the fierce narrowing of her eyes exacerbating the shadowed crinkles on the edges of her face. She refused to gorge out her feeble heart any longer; especially over something that she could not or would not fix.

The old woman remembered how numb she was after she'd dug her butcher knife across a too young throat – after she had cried over the drained body of someone she loved, and who, for once in her life, had loved her back on the bakehouse floor. And then - while now she realized she was relieved beyond sanity that she'd found Lucy before Sweeney did – she remembered still feeling nothing as she covered the blonde's howling mouth and carved out every ounce of soiled blood.

Usually she didn't waste time on things like that – things that hurt a hell of a lot more than they were really worth, but she supposed that was how it was always meant to be: thinking of the beginning when one was at their end.

She nearly laughed when she briefly thanked God, or whoever the hell was up there, that Sweeney was busy awaiting the Judge's arrival that night, and was too preoccupied with sweet revenge to recognize the crooning lullaby Eleanor had cut short just beneath his window.

After Turpin's insufferable life was ended and the bodies lying hot in the bakehouse were thrown into the inferno's last fire, they had fled the country, too earlier for decent people to be up and about. They watched London disappear before the sun could even think of waking up and igniting the dark ocean yellow.

Her and darling Johanna had gotten along famously, whenever Eleanor didn't have her pale face glued into a pale, and distinctly amongst fuzzy recollections, she remembered the sweet girl pleading her to tie down the barber on the spot, before someone else did.

Eleanor's lips cracked under the pressure of the warm reflections churning like butter through her mind's eye, twitching into a distant smile. She just knew there'd be a gold band around her finger, had Johanna thought to beg her father.

It was too bad Sweeney didn't wish to reveal his true identity to the young couple – if only he did, she would have had wonderful memories of their wedding night to reminisce on.

Sweeney turned his head and watched the side of Eleanor's face, his lips parting and closing as he contemplated saying something to her. The clacking of her knitting needles seemed to fill every inch of the room, leaving no space for words that truthfully needed to be said. Instead of breaking her song of noise, deciding against interrupting her precise thoughts with something that probably couldn't be expressed adequately enough, Sweeney placed a hand on her knee, silently hoping she'd look his way and think of how to speak the words he had to say for him…

A small sigh of exhaust escaped out of her pursed lips, and Eleanor held up the finished scarf in front of her, inspecting it with a satisfied, yet brusquely commenting eye. She shifted to hand the gift over to her love, smiling a little childishly, looking a decade or so younger from her radiant happiness. Her years fell back into place in the corners of her mouth and her eyes, her skin losing its brilliant lustre, her hands slowly sinking down to her lap as shock froze her aged heart.

She didn't breath; she didn't gasp or cry out as she once expected to. "Sweeney," She whispered, her throat clamped tight as if his ghost was squeezing her neck in.

Her barber was dead; his eyes closed and his head leant back on the settee, his pulseless hand still clinging in displaced hope on her quivering knee. She drew in a sharp breath, liquid salt searing trails down her deflated cheeks, and Eleanor's shaky fingertips brushed his nose, his lips, his jaw, his hairline in deathly silence.

"Half a minute, couldn'tcher?" She peeped, fisting his muffler against her chest, her beating, heaving chest. "Couldn't yah wait, my love…?"


	6. A Little Something on The Beach

**A.N. Heeeeey :DD I think I might start a separate set of one-shots, y'know, for Toby and Mrs. Lovett... Because I have a bunch of ideas rolling about in me daft head for them, so yeah, fun fun fun! C: **

**Anyways, it seems that this might possibly the last of my Sweenett additions to this here... Thingy, so yeah. That's good... I might put alil something more if I ever think of something worthy to put, but for now it's looking to be the end. It's been fun, pals, but all good things must come to an end, even if these aren't even all that good. And I know this is alittle short to be the end, but for the life of me I couldn't care less. Sorry if there are any random holes, but I honestly just wanted it all to finish with a cute wittle kiss! ...Is 'breast-line' even a thing?**

**Enjoy and review, my sweets! -Gillies (_Sorry, I've been reading Wicked lately, and now ain't that one lovely book?...My God, my face is itchy, wtf is going on_)**

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The sea. How he _despised_ and _loathed_ the sea... How he _despised_ and _loathed_ – so, _so_ much more than the cacophony of salty, dirty waves and muddy beaches just yonder the pathetic cast of shadow and the sunken-in sand under his bloodless ass - Nellie Lovett for making him tag along on her little picnic of doom. Why he was even here he couldn't efficiently relay to any askers, if he was in the state of mind to relent and actually speak for once, even though his cheek and his neck were still tingling – and oddly enough, his earlobe was too set alight with buzzing nerve-endings –from his 'landlady's' thorough persuasion; the journey there was amiss in his recollection of the earlier events.

He looked as inconspicuously as possible over at the paragon of infuriating beauty who sat, laid back and smiling and enjoying the day, by his side. She, of course, was prating away about this and that, some person and a person, though he denied himself the ability to care for specifics – oh no, she saw him sparing her a glimpse!

Mrs. Lovett flashed reminiscences of her euphemistic mendacity through a toothy smirk, her chin resting on her shoulder. She shrugged delicately and continued weaving the pleasant fabrics of her daydreams, cooing on and on.

"When I was nothin' but a skinny slip offa thing…Wiggle me toes," She did so, scooting down and rumpling up the coarse blanket, kicking off her shoes and glancing around before ridding a leg of her stocking. She sighed, "In the briny."

Sweeney forced his unintentionally greedy gaze from her milky calf, resisting too look up at the side of distant face with a scowl. He remained silently reprimanding, sulking like a petulant child at the cheerful breeze that swept his black hair off his shoulders.

"Wouldn't that be just…Jus' so smashin'?" Mrs. Lovett let back, her arms folded beneath her head and her face turned up; her foot was still sifting and playing in the sand, but with less purpose. Her eyes trailed along the leaves that rustled and cackled, eager to fall to the grass and beach, squinting when her gaze neared too close to where the sun sat hidden behind a vague curtain of green.

By the sea, with the water mulling a short expanse of grit beyond where Lovett had chosen as an idyllic spot – it positively grated on his ears and demanded to be focused on, if only for a second – Sweeney's fury set on the white slaps and he bit back a monstrous growl of annoyance. Bombarded with heart-twisting phantasmagorias of shackles and whips and a dark, abysmal ship of sickness and infestation and filth, Sweeney felt panic well up undesired and stern, like a castigating cuff of a father, the stench of dead fish and rotten water pervading his flared nostrils to the point of gagging.

He sucked in a breath, his world narrowing, spiralling in to the miserable memories of pain and suffering, the inescapable prison of red dirt and back-breaking labor and hapless fantasies and wishes – inescapable, he said; who's to say he was even truly there? Sitting beneath a bloody tree with his be-hind numb and his face cold from the collective winds roaming out of the depths of the ocean, who was to say? –

In a jump for respite he reeled over her, blinking and grabbing whatever he could as he draped himself over her tensed body, his more ambitious strands of hair reaching up from where his forehead rested, beneath her breast-line. He shook her gently, sinking down and dropping his weight onto her corseted stomach as he clung to her, hands gripping her shoulder and the back of her neck. He breathed, his vision reduced to nothing but the darkened material of her dress, the smell of her skin beneath, warm and reassuring. He closed them then, letting the brief shock of his scare drift out of him to drown their insufferable beastly beings in the nearby ocean for all he cared. For now, he felt safe.

Suddenly he was reminded of how he'd pulled himself out of the horrific past, by little hesitant hands combing through his hair. He paused for a second, listening to her whispered "_you alright, love_?" and feeling the way her body shrank a bit before re-bloating as she breathed carefully.

Sweeney sat up slowly, leaning still over her tiny frame with his eyebrows drawn together and his eyes boring into hers. His lips parted slightly, air rolling in forcefully as he went to say something –

A ball thwarted Sweeney on his nose - seemingly coming out of nowhere at all, what the hell! - and he jerked from, not the impact but the surprise. He sneered viciously, pushing down the heat that was threatening to rise as Mrs. Lovett giggled and snorted next to him. His wildly thrown gaze caught Toby's satisfied smirk; the boy was standing some way away, grinning smugly and looking as if he was egging Sweeney on to try something about it. Mrs. Lovett sat up and patted Sweeney's cheek in an apology she knew he definitely wouldn't be getting from the lad.

After a brief moralization, Toby had convinced his mum to play some idiotic game with him, and the two were off to joke and laugh and poke, or whatever it was they did. Sweeney sat criss-crossed#apple-sauce# on the picnic blanket, plopping his chin into his hand as he watched from where he glowered in the shade.

The sun was sinking by the time mother and son decided it was time to retire from their recitation of some roughed-up Shakespearian play, and for a while the small patch of thread-work was occupied by three and crowded. Smirking inwardly, Sweeney contemplated kicking the brat off – and would have, had he not been shoved off so the blanket could be folded up and squeezed into a basket.

Toby scampered off in the lead with a shiny penny, his mouth watering at the mere prospect of toffees. Mrs. Lovett, carrying the leftover plates and bits of food in a wicker basket she'd gotten for a fair price at the market not too long ago, smiled and tried to muffle her good-natured snicker with her gloved hand.

"Funny lad, inne?" She murmured, looking over at him. Her eyes dropped to his side, widening in shock as she saw something silver glint against the black of his trousers. "Oh, _Mr. T_!" She scolded. He rolled his eyes.

Mrs. Lovett sighed audibly, though really she knew she shouldn't have been so surprised, and she snatched the razor from Sweeney's grip. "_Honestly_ love, do y'bring this damned thing ev'rywhere?" She scoffed, stepping ahead to call to Toby.

Suddenly crushing fingers surrounded Mrs. Lovett's forearm, tugging her back and around. Her gasp of surprise was given no heed, nor acknowledged, and Sweeney cut it off with his mouth. His nose bent against the soft, warm skin of her, his hands held her in place with a desperate uncertainty that neither understood. His head seemed to swell with salty sea water, and it felt as if it were drowning all thoughts and decisions that were or was to be residing in the dark crevices of his tortured reinforcements.

A bruising kiss pressed securely, determinedly on her lips, Mrs. Lovett let slip all thoughts and decisions, her heart pausing before leaping in a fluttery, giddy dance; her unsure hands wavering in the air before slipping under his lapels, gripping for stolidity. Rationality weakened with her knees, and the kiss grew to the limits of public fervidity before one of them (oddly not the one with the repute of practicality) pulled away and they started somehow to continue on their expedition home. Sweeney didn't want her to see that he found security in her presence, even as he grasped slowly himself that he needed her, he faltered none in his steps.

Realizing her eyes were fastened closed and her mouth was pinched in the frozen stance that would emanate through twitchy muscles to peck another's cheek, Mrs. Lovett reigned in her combusted scraps of function and wit, stumbling to align herself instep to Sweeney's leisure stride.

Her face was burning, she knew, but besides her uncomfortable complexion and despite the judging slices passersby took out of her, she had never felt a greater sense of bliss; she had never seen a day in such a greater light of grandeur.

Stealing a glance at the man who so ardently held her heart within his own sweating palm, Mrs. Lovett breathlessly took in the lopsided grin that warmed his pale beautiful face. She felt her skin tighten and mirror his happy visage, and her vision wetted with joy she couldn't even begin to understand when he stole a glance himself, at her. Mrs. Lovett rested her head on his shoulder, and gave him back his razor.


End file.
